Currently Late
Summer seize heat.
Winter sees cold.
Spring changes our minds.
Fall surrounds us, sublime.
In the Summer, I twirl the stem of rose.
She twirls like a ballerina with her tutu.
In Winter, she’s brazen in virgin white.
She’s statuesque, tall as an oak.
In Spring, the music box spins and spins.
Her melody is sweet, prim and proper.
In Fall, the springs are shocked.
“Memories,” plays on and on.
I can jump to seasons as if changing channels.
My senses react to the perfume or crisp air.
Currently late
Summer, though
the boat is slow
in Georgia, where
the lights go out
in October, and
my head is high
in the leaves
spinning like
a pinwheel,
through hues
of God’s choosing.
He’s never late,
though we feel delayed.
Our seasons
always show -
on land, on sea,
on me.
and I remember the lamp,
its shade of childhood,
high on my dresser.
I loved the ballerina -
she moved me.
Wondering if we shall glimpse
such things that passed away.
Still we’d give up every last glimpse
to see our loved ones again.
Seasons be.
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